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MO'S MAN FOUND
The Sydney Morning Herald claims to have located Maureen Dowd’s long-lost Australian lover—and he turns out not to be Australian at all, but a common Irishman who before meeting Dowd had once visited Australia:
Rowan McCormick, a young Anglo-Irishman, stayed with Pat Stratton and her husband in Wahroonga in the late 1960s.
"His father and my husband were with the same company. His mum was in the WRNS and so was I. His father sent him out here to toughen him up a bit,” Stratton told us.
It worked, obviously.
The young buck later returned to Dublin, she said. He’s now married with two kids and living in Falmouth, England.
That seems to be the trend with Modo’s exes. (The married-with-two-kids bit. Not living in Falmouth, England.)
(Well, let’s not be too hasty; for all I know, Falmouth, England is one big MoDo relationship-recovery support group.)
How can the media be doing this dude a favor by associating him with MoDo?
OTOH, he is an acknowledged member of the MoDo Survivors Club™.....possibly a founding member. Someone ought to make a movie.
Posted by The_Real_JeffS on 2006 03 02 at 12:06 PM • permalinkLonnie Donegan
Dum-dum-a-dimmy, dum-a-dum
Dum-dum-a-dimmy, dum-a-dumHey! A turbaned Turk who scorns the world
May strut about with his whiskers curled
Keep a hundred wives under lock and key
For nobody else but himself to see
Yet long must he pray with his Al Koran
Before he can love like an Irishman
Long may he pray with his Al Koran
Before he can love like an IrishmanDum-dum-a-dimmy, dum-a-dum
The gay monsieur, a slave no more
The solemn Don and the shocked Senor
The Dutch Mynheer, so full of pride
The Russian, Prussian, Swede beside
They all may do whatever they can
But they never, never love like an Irishman
They all may do whatever they can
But they never, never love like an IrishmanDum-dum-a-dimmy, dum-a-dum
Now the London folks themselves beguile
And think they please in a capital style
But let them ask as they cross the street
Of any young girl that they happen to meet
And I know she’ll say from behind her fan
Nobody loves like an Irishman
I know what she’ll say from behind her fan
Nobody loves like an IrishmanHe-ey! Dum-dum-a-dimmy, dum-a-dum
(Instrumental Break)
Dum-dum-a-dimmy, dum-a-dum
So I want you to know just how much I care
And the rest of my life with you I’d share
I love your face, your hair, your smile
It’s just as sure as I come from the Emerald Isle
It must be clear to your lovely eye
No boy will love you better than I
It must be clear to your lovely eye
No boy will love you better than IA “common Irishman”, is it? And just phwhat would be the meanin’ of that, sorr? And do yez think the shameless hussy Dowd could have the pickin’ of any Irishman ("common Irishman!” Begorrah!!). Whoy, I’d wager that the lad was no more Irish than Prester John. And Dowd? The descendant of some by-blow of a swab ship-wrecked from the Armada, most like.
Curse you Tim Blair. If this guy wanted to meet up with MoDo, don’t you think it would have happened by now?
I mean to say, sure this man made a mistake. Some might call it a colossal one, analogous to meeting a special person on Brokeback Mountain. But his excuse was youth and the depraved foolishness that makes us do what we would never do in the saner moments of adulthood. He wanted to forget this sordid chapter of his life, to not ever let it touch and taint the life he has cobbled together since that very ignoble time.
No no, this guy was resting easily, sure in the belief that MoDo would never find him. She thinks he’s an Australian, hah! he’s Irish. She thinks he resides in Australia, ho! he lives in England. In his way of thinking, she’s half a world away from tracking him down. A cunning man his father raised.
That has now all changed. Thanks to you and your nefarious brethen in the MSM.
Posted by wronwright on 2006 03 02 at 03:23 PM • permalinkI ran the data through Paco’s Patented Woo-O-Meter, and it turns out that MoDo is looking for a straight Oscar Wilde with the physique of Hulk Hogan; second option: a deaf, mute Kurt Russell. There are no known specimens of the first type; the second is only available in a half-blind version , and isn’t interested.
(Falmouth, England is one big MoDo relationship-recovery support group.)
Actually, during the time I lived in Falmouth, any visit by MoDo would probably have led to a good old-fashioned witch burning - the rugged West Country folk of those days didn’t take kindly Mo’s ilk.
‘Course, that was back in the days before the general sissification ofGreatBritain had really gotten started. Sigh!It turns out men are necessary if you want a root. Sounds like there could be a book in that.
Posted by Margos Maid on 2006 03 02 at 05:03 PM • permalinkSo, in Ireland, talking to an Irish fellow, surrounded by other Irish people, MoDo thought the gentleman was speaking with an Australian accent?
Was he unseemly-drunk? Or do all furrners sound alike to MoDo?
(My middle son once said to a waitress, “You have an interesting accent, but it isn’t Irish. Is it Scottish?”
It was Jamaican.
But he was seven years old, and he wasn’t planning on moving to Scotland to develop a relationship with her, for crying out loud!)
So much for the Irish and British versions of witness protection.
Posted by Pat Patterson on 2006 03 02 at 05:53 PM • permalinkI can just imagine Modo, Greer and their Ilk wandering around the planet in 30 years time looking, not for lost love, but for the remains of western civilisation.
Posted by knuckleheadwatch on 2006 03 02 at 06:22 PM • permalinkThe guy’s probably been reliving the experience with his mates at the pub for the past 30 years:
"Do ya remem’er t’at ginger Yankee trallope who I fed de ol’ white puddin’ to? T’e silly heifer bought de yarn that I was an Aussie. Dumb as a box full of hammers. I wonder what she’s doin’ now the poor t’ing.”
Young Rowan tried to think through the alcoholic haze of a 12 pint hangover. The silly activist chick who threw herself at him certainly looked better through the beer goggles. Now in the cold grey light of dawn things were not quite as they seemed the night before. She had been awkward and inexperienced, but with a certain eager sluttiness that overcame the deleterious effects of many beers. To make things worse, since waking up she had been spouting the most ridiculous drivel. It sounded like when he saw Red Robbo on the telly in front of the Leyland plant. Ireland was becoming an apocalyptic Ford world? What the heck? At any rate, the moment of truth arrived. “Rowan, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?” Rowan panicked. I told her my real name! Bloody hell! He tried to think, what was the furthest place he could think of? “Australia!” he blurted, just before heaving his previous night’s dinner into the kitchen sink…
Posted by Vanguard of the Commentariat on 2006 03 02 at 09:03 PM • permalink"Common Irishman” Indeed!
An’ here’s me thinkin’ that with a good Catholic name like Timothy, you’d be one of our own, ah but I see you’re a Blair, I should have known it. Be the Holy you’re probably one of them black protestant Scotch types, aye away wit’ ye, ya blue nosed orange bastard!
Posted by Harry Flashman on 2006 03 02 at 11:51 PM • permalink#23 RebeccaH
Sounds more like a Kiwi to me. They have developed a brilliant, vowel shifting patois, so:
“dEck” becomes “dIck” (and “sEx” becomes “sIx” and “sIx” becomes “sUx")
“hAnd” becomes “hEnd”The old favourite: “fIsh and chIps” becomes “fUsh and chUps”
Yes, you can have a lot of fun chatting with a Kiwi - and yes, the lingo torture is mutual!
Posted by Stop Continental Drift! on 2006 03 03 at 02:36 AM • permalinkErm, Wronwright?
We have unpacked you camping kit out of the time machine. The Barrett .50cals have been returned to the armoury. Ditto the flamethrowers, Schmeisser (how DID you get Reihnard Heydrich’s own Schmeisser?), 9mm pistols and claymores. The glaive, scythian sword, throwing knives, morning star, poniards and assorted other cutlery are out the back of the
torture chambergames room. Igor is um, playing with them, using up some spare moonbats we found about the place.I have stored the tent, sleeping bag and inflatable rubber objects.
Igor ate the custard and the pineapple. Dav-o is using the wetsuit - no, trust me, you do NOT want to know.
There was absolutely no sign of 3,000 litres of mesopotamian Mead, or that keg of quadruple-distilled whiskey from Skye.
MarkL
CanberraHic
So in addition to Godwin’s Law the internet now has Dowd’s Law. The further from MoDo herself the happier the man…
Posted by richard mcenroe on 2006 03 03 at 11:08 AM • permalinkA “common Irishman”, is it? And just phwhat would be the meanin’ of that, sorr?
My nation? What man is it who speaks of my nation?
Posted by richard mcenroe on 2006 03 03 at 11:11 AM • permalinkFalmouth, England is one big MoDo relationship-recovery support group.
Let the healing begin.
When these bozo women decide not to have children, they are “selecting” themselves out of the gene pool. They don’t have any brats to inculcate with their bizarro ideologies.
Posted by Mystery Meat on 2006 03 03 at 11:50 AM • permalink#26
Put. The mead. In the stockroom.
Now.
Posted by wronwright on 2006 03 03 at 01:16 PM • permalinkDecisions decisions ... hmmm ... I COULD hide in the stockroom and wait for MarkL to act on Wronwright’s order ... nah! Better to casually schlep on over to the library ... i THINK that’s where MarkL hides all his best stuff.
Posted by Stoop Davy Dave on 2006 03 03 at 06:36 PM • permalinkFrom the stockroom...
“There was a wild colonial boy...”
Posted by richard mcenroe on 2006 03 03 at 08:17 PM • permalink#26 how DID you get Reihnard Heydrich’s own Schmeisser?
Reihnard Heydrich? Is that who it was?
Ever see The Wizard of Oz? Remember the part when Dorothy’s house falls on the Wicked Witch of the East? Well I inadvertently landed the Tardis on top of old Reihnard. Please believe me when I say I’m really sorry about that.
Still, he wasn’t using those nice leather jack boots anymore. And that pistol was very nice.
Posted by wronwright on 2006 03 03 at 09:08 PM • permalinkWronwright, look, we had 20 minions offload your gear from the time machine.
OBVIOUSLY, a mere 20 minions cannot drink 3,000 litres of mead. Too much mead, yes?
But 20 minions can unload your… unusual… very, very unusual..... collection of inflatable “rubber objects”.
Also obviously, WE TOOK PICTURES OF these “UNUSUAL” RUBBER OBJECTS before and after moving them so that the OWNER, WRONWRIGHT my old friend, might know POST-facto ON balance of probabilities that even in this INTERNET world IF YOU see the images and DON’T appreciate their clarity caused by correct SHUTter speed UP ABOUT small fractions of a second in THE imMEADiately ambient light.
I hope that this enables you to GET THE MESSAGE.
Look, I have to
staggerrun back tojoinsupervise thepartywork-crew. After all, the minionettes have gottenpissed, horny and nakedjoined in theorgyummpartydaily loyal toil for the VRWC.MarkL
CanberraMarkL,
See if you get this message:
touch the mead, you die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die.
(btw, the rubber stuff belongs to that Dr. Who looney tune who “helps” “facilitate” traveling, when he decides to show up that is)
Posted by wronwright on 2006 03 04 at 04:23 AM • permalinkThat is miraculous. The Doctor Who looney tune
has the same DNA asbears a striking resemblance to you!Oh, we found the mead and have returned it to the store.
Look, I have to go, gotta get Paco to sign this stores requisition for 2,500 litres of Brazilian ethanol and 500 litres of honey, a humungous mixing vat and a bunch of plastic buckets and pouring funnels.
I think he’ll OK it. The minionettes are gonna deliver it…
MarkL
canberra
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Glad to hear he’s not paraplegic and in a wheelchair in some Outback nursing home after dating MoDo.......and that he fathered two children suggests she went easy on him in her younger days